Two Faced
by OrangePlum
Summary: How can you win if the person you're fighting with is yourself? A Civil War fic.


A/N: A Civil War story. The topic interests me, and I do love the drama. I hope I kept everyone in character.

Also, in case anyone isn't that familiar, the war of 1812 was a war not long after the revolution. France and England were at war and wanted America to pick a side. America wanted to stay neutral – they didn't want to fight France because they had Napoleon and had helped them with their revolution, but they didn't want to go to war with England because of the already rocky history and elite army.

England and France were also angry that America was still trading with both of them so America stopped trading altogether. That was bad. Finally America was forced to choose and waged war on England. England kicked their ass and burned down the first white house. Totally sucked nards, man.

Anyway, please enjoy the story.

* * *

There was a heaviness residing over England's shoulders as he stood outside of America's estate. He wasn't surprised to see the large colonial house before him chosen as the young nation's home. It was a wonderful house, really, that he'd come to loathe the past few decades. He had had it built for the boy selfishly, England had to admit. But what could he say? Back then he'd offered the world to America, anything to catch his attention and make his eyes sparkle in that way only for England, just to get shoved away unrightfully so.

As bitter memories started to flood the Briton's mind he scowled, his teeth gnashing almost violently. In his hand was a parchment he'd received a few weeks ago, nearly torn in two from the spout of anger it invoked in him upon receiving it. America had done the stupidest thing he could've ever done. He wrote to England. But it wasn't just writing to him that sent the Briton into an angry frenzy. No. It was that England could sense the blonde was trying to gain some sort of compassion or comfort from him.

And that just didn't sit well with England. Not one damn bit.

He'd tried to tear the letter in half but couldn't manage to go through completely with the dark deed. He never could go through with anything fully when it came to America. No, scratch that. When it came to England feeling like he was doing _harm_ to America.

But still…It was the principle of the matter. What did the boy expect England to do? Come with arms wide open, whispering soothing words in his ear that everything would be fine when there was a large chance it wouldn't? If so, he was stupider than England remembered.

England's breathing began to slowly pick up as the hot licks of rage bubbled up from his stomach and burned his skin. Being across the sea he could deal with this painful emotion, but here…No, no. Here, with America no more than fifty feet away, England found it hard to see straight let alone breathe.

He'd gone through the Revolution with America which tore his heart in two. Then thinking the blonde would leave him alone, completely convinced that he hated him, America stuck his finger in the wound and twisted with the war of 1812. And now!

England wanted to laugh humorlessly at the situation America was in. A civil war. He was finally getting some retribution for all the seemingly one-sided pain the blonde dished out at him. The term, "I hope you get what's coming to you," was finally starting to spark meaning in England.

And yet…despite all the resentment he held for the young nation, England was baffled to find himself on America's porch, the porch England had built just for the sole purpose of America, knocking down on the old wooden door that seemed so familiar yet so distant.

England hadn't even registered that he'd moved until he heard a slow creaking, a woman's face peeking through the crack of the door. She looked weary and tired. England felt something akin to nervousness crawl through him when a spot of recognition sparked on her face, relief fluttering in her eyes. His eyes narrowed at this, unwilling and refusing to be America's savior from himself. Not right now.

"Can I help you?" she asked, feigning ignorance at the look she'd just given him. She gripped the door tightly, her mouth straining to stay a thin line. England could tell by her eyes glossing over and the slight tweak upward of her lips that she was indeed relieved to see him.

"Perhaps," he muttered, green eyes darting past her at the dimly lit house. There was a wall building in his throat making talking nearly impossible. The Briton never thought of what he'd actually say. Yes, of what he'd _wanted_ to say, but never would. Now that he was here he felt utterly clueless. What was he supposed to be feeling?

The woman leaned in closer, eager to let the guest in yet not doing so until England spoke up. He shifted. "I am here to see Alfred." England felt his throat close over that one name, his brow furrowing deeply on his forehead. He didn't want to use that name because it was soaked with familiarity, but he couldn't use 'America' either. No one knew of the nation's existences, and England surely wasn't going to be the one to let that slip just because he was having a tiff with someone he wished he'd never cared about.

The woman's face relaxed almost instantly making England suppress a growl. Where did she get the thought that looking at him like that was okay? "Oh. This way please," he smiled tiredly and opened the door wider. The Briton tensed but walked in nonetheless. The smell that wafted over him sent that smiling blue-eyed face flashing through his brain instantly. England felt his chest tighten a moment before following after the house keeper.

"Master Jones should be happy to see you," she muttered, her feet tapping against the wooden flooring. England chose to remain silent, his eyes scanning over the familiar walls. "He hasn't been doing that well. Not since this war started. It's strange, the doctors don't know what's wrong."

England scoffed. The bloody prat was just going through something nearly every nation went through at some point. It wasn't like this was strange or anything.

"He's been getting all these strange wounds, yet he hasn't been outside in days," the woman thought aloud with concern. England watched in silence with slight interest. No doubt she was fond of Alfred. Most everyone he came in contact with loved him, especially his citizens. He had a certain…charm.

"Sounds peculiar," England added, feeling as though she expected him to say something. She nodded and gripped at her shawl.

"It is. I hope you don't mind me saying, but I'm glad you're here. I think the young master has been expecting you." England stopped and tilted his head, his brow furrowing. She gave a small sigh. "He's been staring out the window for days. I don't know why else he would if it wasn't for you."

The mixture of bitterness and anger fought to keep down the concern and love he still possessed for the blonde. The Briton looked away abruptly, his fists clenching. The woman watched warily before continuing to lead him towards the large sitting room.

"Wait here a moment. I'll go find him," she instructed. England watched as she silently left the room before letting a shuddering breath out his nostrils. Not even seeing America yet, and he was already a jumble of frayed nerves. He knew this was a mistake. He shouldn't have come.

What was he even suppose to say?

Movement out of the corner of his eye caused England to shift and see the person he was so anxious to visit. To his surprise, causing him to actually falter and nearly let his jaw fall, America was looking more wear and tear than he thought he would. The blonde looked nearly as twice as old than the last time England saw him.

Blonde hair lacked the lift and soft texture that it used to, almost hanging limply from his head. Blue eyes were dull and surrounded by dark craters. America's skin was pale and sickly, a bit of sweat and grime coating around the edges. His posture was slumped and it looked like it was taking a toll on the boy just to merely stand up. Littered about his skin were various bandages, some lightly stained pink from the closing wounds under them.

In a nutshell America looked miserable.

"What the bloody hell happened to your face?" England muttered in disbelief, before shutting his mouth ashamed. He had let that slip before he could stop it. America blinked surprised before smiling. It looked pathetic to the Briton who wanted nothing more than to go up and slap the boy for even showing him such a feeble grin. Where were those pearly whites he was always showing off?

"Martha told me you were here but I thought she was kidding," the blonde said coming into the room and standing across from the older nation. England kept his scowl present while eyeing the boy with cautious green orbs.

At England's silence, America shifted and gestured towards his couch. "You can sit down," he said, stumbling over his words. This was an awkward experience for him as well as England. Slowly moving to take a seat, England stopped with analyzing eyes. Something stirred under the pooling blue of America's eyes, shifting the blonde's face for a moment. America quickly recovered with another smile.

England huffed and sat down crossing his leg.

"Do you want anything to drink?" America asked turning to the chamber maid appearing with a small tray of tea. England watched her set it down, minding the way America reached forward. She instructed him that it was hot and he chuckled lightly before she took her weary leave. England watched the blonde pour a cup and hand it to the Briton.

England noticed the slight tremble in America's fingers but took the cup quietly none the less. He took a careful sip, green orbs watching every movement of the nation across from him. Pouring another cup and slowly sitting down with a wince, America attempted another smile at England. The shiver that ran up his spine and repulsion taking home in his gut at the weak tweak of the lips made England nearly choke on his tea.

"Thank you," he muttered and set the cup down with a light 'clink' against the table. America hummed quietly in response taking a small sip from his own cup.

"Was…Was your trip alright?" America asked after an awkward silence passed between the two tense nations. He looked a bit worried about something but that was to be expected. At least it didn't seem the boy hated England. That thought alone eased some of his aching nerves.

"A bit rough," the Briton added gruffly remembering how he had gotten sick several times on the way over, not all caused by the sea per say. "Sailing is not what is used to be. I don't find myself enjoying it like I used to. The voyage was rather sudden, if you don't mind me saying. It was unpleasant as well as surprising." He sent America a defiant stare coated with ice, the blonde's cup rattling a moment in his hand. He looked away.

"I'm sorry about that," the American mentioned with a worrisome smile into his cup softly. There was something hiding behind his words creating a swell of disorder in his houseguest. "I didn't – I mean, I _did_. But I didn't mean to cause problems for you." England shifted and thrummed his fingers in his lap. America huffed as if not liking the taste of the words on his tongue. He tried again, something akin to guilt filling his eyes. "You're not angry, are you?"

England mulled over the hesitant words a moment before his own voice dropping a couple of somber decibels. "I am."

America shifted at the silence that followed, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup in mock interest. "Oh. I see." The heartbreak in the blonde's voice made England want to retract his words immediately as well as spit them out with twice as much force. He settled on concentrating on deep breaths.

"You can imagine why, I presume," England continued. America's eyes snapped to his immediately; calm, cooling blue wrapping around England's being making him unable to look away. He'd forgotten how much impact America's eyes had on him.

"I'm sorry," America offered helpfully, knowing full well it wouldn't be that easy to sway the Briton. England's hands clenched over each other, brushing aside his anger.

"It doesn't matter. I'm already here. What was so important to…" England looked around hoping to find the sentence he needed to complete on the walls.

_What was so important that you needed to see me specifically?_

He couldn't say that for what it implied. For it seeming that America still needed England. And the stiff nation couldn't - _wouldn't_ - allow his hopes to rise for America's sake. Not again. Never again.

America got the gist of what the Briton wished to say without another word being uttered. He chewed on his lip and opened his mouth ready to say something when a violent jerk craned his neck in one solid movement, the cup falling from his grasp onto the ground. England's eyes shot up confused to see America's eyes darken in some incoherent way. It sent horrible Goosebumps down his body.

He rose cautiously from his seat before America extended his hands outwards. He took a few breaths before bending down and picking up the chipped object. England stared, still a bit jarred by the sudden movement from the other nation, and watched America concentrate below him.

"Sorry," he muttered and started patting up the spilled tea. "I was clumsy. Don't get up, I'll clean this up." America glanced up reassuringly, but England could still pick up on the dark swirls residing below the surface of his eyes.

_So it's that bad?_ England thought somberly watching his former son or brother-figure with suppressed concern. He knew the war was taking a toll on the boy physically, but he'd never thought it had gotten this bad mentally. There was obviously some shadow residing in the once cheerful blonde fighting for control or worse; to separate altogether. The Englishman decided to shove the distressed thought from his mind.

"_Alfred_," he warned, quietly glancing out into the hall to see if any people were walking by. The blonde's attention came back to England, a bit hesitant, almost analyzing. By the way the Briton was staring, America could already get a good feel of the atmosphere. He stopped his cleaning before smiling.

"You can tell, huh?" he asked, already knowing the answer. England remained silent watching the younger nation stand up and grip the sides of his chair before lowering himself onto it. He couldn't escape the perceiving eyes watching his every move. "That's why – well…That's why I wanted you to come."

England glared noticing the desperation seeping into America's tone.

"How long's this been going on for?" he asked hoping he sounded unconcerned.

"A while now. I can't get it to stop." The blonde's eyes darted around the room nervously, searching for anything other than the man in front of him to focus on. He couldn't look at England now. Not when he felt a great deal of shame and distress.

"You know it's not going to stop till-"

"-till the war's over. I know that. I know," America cut off upset. He'd known that. The voice in his head reminded him that every day for what seemed like an eternity. England frowned at being interrupted but decided not to dwell on it. America paused before taking a slow breath. "What did you do, Arthur?"

The question wasn't unexpected but it did cut England off-guard. His throat clenched uncomfortably as the disturbing memories danced beneath his eyelids. Slowly he spoke, his words firm and unbending. "You beat it."

"How?"

"Don't give in."

America ruffled his hair, the darkness starting to rise beneath the surface putting England on guard. America stood and started to pace, soft puffs of air quickly tumbling from his lips. He looked frustrated at the vague answer he was getting. Obviously he thought England could offer something more malleable to use. England merely watched quietly knowing the impact of his words.

It may not have sounded helpful, but that was all it was. If America wanted the growing entity inside of him to dissipate he needed to overpower it with his will. He wouldn't stand a chance if he didn't put faith in his people and himself.

"It has to be something else. That's too simple. I've tried that already!" America exclaimed, anger starting to singe his words. His voice was shifting to something more bitter; something lower. England gripped the fabric over his knees, a small perspiration soaking below his bangs.

"Obviously not," the Briton commented calmly. Or at least it sounded pretty calm to his own ears. To America's it may have sounded a bit smug, what with his posture shifting, murky eyes analyzing in quite impatience.

"Arthur, please. If I could do this on my own I wouldn't have bothered you. I need…"

The spike of panic burst in the Englishman's chest, his face tensing up. No. America better not finish that sentence. England refused to hear that America needed him. He couldn't be tied down by those emotions, those painful emotions, again.

"I need…your help."

The sweat that warmed the Briton's forehead let loose a drop that dribbled down his temple as the room grew quiet once more. Oh. That was…England didn't know if America needing his help rather than him as a whole made him feel better or worse. A little of each he concluded.

America watched but received no answer from the silent nation now staring at his own tea cup. The blonde's lips started to pull downward before the deep trenches of blue under his eyes flooded out uncontrollably making a small grin appear on his face.

"_It's not going to work._"

The deeper voice reached the sandy-blonde's ears making him peer up. What he saw wasn't the America he knew.

"What?" England muttered, his brow furrowing.

"_There's no way you can do it. You need us. You need our slaves. Why do you put us through this? It's painful. It's not right!_" the American demanded, his smile turning down into a deep frown. It took a moment before England became aware that he wasn't talking to him. He wasn't even aware of his presence in the room.

"_You know the longer you hold on, the more people are going to die. You're going to kill us both with your foolishness. Why don't you just back down?_" the furious voice demanded at nothing in particular. England sat on the edge of his seat seeing America fight for control. He looked pained with sadness at the spiteful words.

"I…No, you're wrong. You're the one who's wrong. I don't need that kind of labor. It's not right. _You're_ not right," America tried to reason with determination. His face contorted in a wince.

"_Then let us go. If you don't need us then let us go!_"

"No!" America yelled desperately to the empty air in the room. England couldn't manage to tear his eyes away. He'd never seen the boy like this. "I need you! Don't leave; you can't."

England felt a shiver crawling under his skin seeing the furious eyes darting about angrily taking over the shining blue that used to reside there. "_Oh shut up! You're a fucking hypocrite!_"

England stood up abruptly, not taking a liking to anyone using that tone with America. It was malicious and hateful meant to poke and prod at the blonde in a hurtful way. He wouldn't admit it, but England wouldn't tolerate anyone speaking that way to the boy with him around, even if it was technically America doing it.

"I'm not. I just don't want to work people like that anymore. It's wrong," America continued to plead, his face contorting to one of panic.

"That's enough," England spoke up calmly.

The livid face returned, spitting words as sharp as knives meant to prick the pleading nation. "_How do you expect to produce anything by cutting back on free labor, you fool? It's essential or else we wouldn't be fighting. You need to get your head out of the clouds and come back to reality. We hope you haven't forgotten that we're all still America. You still support this!_"

"I don't! I mean…It's – it's still wrong!" America's voice cracked.

England approached the boy with a glower getting stronger with each word. He extended his hand slowly. "I said that's enough."

America ignored him. "_Just like you to evade any question or statement. Why don't you hurry and let go? We don't need you as much as you need us._"

"Hey-" England started to interject, anger now fully flowing through his veins towards the disturbing voice America was emitting.

"I'm not letting you go!"

"_Do it!_"

America shook his head furiously knocking England's hand away. "I said no!"

Something on the blonde's face shifted darkly, a whole-hearted hatred burning once blue orbs. "_You're so ridiculous. Think of it as our Revolutionary war. We've outgrown you._" Pain flickered and America choked. England's eyes widened at the words, red clouding his vision in that instant with uncontrollable vehemence. Before he could control it, he struck the boy across the face.

The slap flew around and bounced off the walls of the large room before disappearing. America stood frozen in shock at both his inner argument and England's action. The Briton stood breathing in terse spills of air, every pore in his body completely furious at the deep voice. He watched as the darkness started to seep back into America's eyes, hiding away temporarily until it would decide to resurface.

America slowly lifted a hand to his stinging cheek, confusion and tears burning at his eyes. England blew a loud puff of air through his nostrils and grit his teeth. "Don't you _ever_ say that," he warned on a deathly whisper. America glanced at him as if finally aware that the sandy-blonde had moved next to him. "I won't allow someone like you to say that."

America blinked, small trails of tears making quiet paths down his cheeks before he fell to his knees, unable to sort through all his emotions. Recalling the hurtful words directed at him, and realizing he was being a bit of a hypocrite, the blonde began to cry. His shoulders shook causing some sensitive wounds to open up again.

England watched in a slight panic at the crumbling nation below him, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of what the southern part of America was insinuating. He leaned down awkwardly and pulled the boy to him. America leaned in, grateful for any kind of support he could get.

Ever since the war had started he'd felt alone and confused. With England here now, the unease that was threatening to drive him insane was starting to cool down. He shut his eyes tightly deciding it would be better not to mention to the concerned Briton that he was feeling a void crawling up his midsection. It had been getting worse that past few weeks making him feel like he was going to get torn in half.

That scared him more than anything.

England rested his head against the top of the blonde's hair and stared at the back wall, a stony expression still present in his eyes. He suddenly felt angry with himself for not coming sooner, preferring to hold onto his bruised pride rather than help America. He didn't know it had gotten this bad.

A frightening thought popped into his mind of a world without America. If he couldn't beat back those spiteful words, there would be no hope. No hope for his country. No hope for his people.

No hope for England.

"Calm down," he muttered, his fingers gripping almost desperately at the nation in his arms as if he was going to disappear that minute. No, he wouldn't let that happen.

"_Then let us go! We don't need you as much as you need us."_

The voice echoed in England's mind making him glare daggers at anything that came into his sight. What a smug and haughty being. England tightened his grip once more, the burn of anger growing tenfold.

Well America could rest assured. Arthur Kirkland refused to recognize that as a country. His country may have taken the south's side, but that didn't mean _England_ had to. And seeing America's pain contorted face, he most certainly wouldn't.

He would never support it. But more importantly, he would never allow it.

America would _not_ break apart.

He couldn't.

* * *

A/N: Such a loser. What can I say? I like drama I guess. Anyways, I made the story as historically accurate as possible. Just because the country of England supported the confederacy didn't mean England the personification needed to.

So yeah!

R&R if you would. Much appreciated.


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